


The Want

by SaturdayAddams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Power Play, Sansa-centric, minor blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturdayAddams/pseuds/SaturdayAddams
Summary: Sansa confronts Petyr after she receives a letter from Cersei. Post season 6 finale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not really a writer, just had to write this scene I couldn't get out of my head. Any feedback would be appreciated.

The dagger failed to pierce the skin where she held it against him. She hoped it hurt. Hoped his blood pulsed faster and faster as she hovered above his seated form.

“And you promised her what, exactly?” 

“Why, your pretty little head of course.” His voice confident, he casually fell back on his arms, forcing her to lean in further to keep the dagger firmly pressed against his neck. His mouth never lost its smirk while his eyes locked with hers in a challenge.

Refusing surrender, she lifted her dress so that she could straddle him. His eyes widened at her move. Good. He wasn’t the only one who could play. Better positioned, she pushed the dagger even further into his skin, almost drawing blood. 

Whatever surprise had crossed his face disappeared, and he was again projecting the image of someone merely intrigued by the turn of events. Pushing himself slightly up, his face was now entirely too close to her own. The image of a wild cat ready to pounce flashed through her mind.

“Of course, you already knew that” he stated. His breath warm and minty against her own.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just give her your head instead” she hissed, her entire body leaning further into his, the dagger finally revealing a red stripe where his neck met his shoulders. She briefly wondered how it would taste were she to flick her tongue across it. Would it taste the same as hers? And how about the skin surrounding it? Willing a reaction from him, she continued: “Even a mad Queen would appreciate such a thoughtful gift, wouldn’t you say? The head of the man who helped kill her precious little son”

If she wanted a reaction, it sure wasn’t in the form of his amused voice dancing in her ears. 

“Well, I’d advise you to get a more appropriate tool sweetling. Your chosen weapon might prove a bit slow. Not to mention messy. Hardly worthy the sister of the King of the North” His face and body still so close. Too close. Her grip on the dagger tightened further.

She ignored the bite of the latter words, instead focusing on regaining the upper hand that she was not sure when or how she’d lost. Looking at her bloody handiwork, she suddenly realised this was the first time she had ever seen the bare skin of his neck. She had been so angry when she burst through the doors, she just now noticed he must have been getting ready for bed. His regular doublet and precious mockingbird nowhere to be seen. He was in his undershirt. His partly open undershirt, and she was pushed up against him, straddling him on his bed in ways most not befitting a lady. Dark and grey hair peeked up from the exposed area of his chest, and in the middle, a pale pink stripe, faded with age but still visible. She’d heard the tale. Whispered gossip in the court of King’s Landing. The foolish young boy not mindful of his place in the world. Without thought her free hand shot up to touch it with her fingers, and she felt his breath hitch at the contact. It was smooth to touch, disappearing to where she couldn’t see. Utterly entranced, she removed the dagger from where it was cutting into his skin. A wicked grin formed on her lips as it found a new place along the line of his scar, tracing down to where she could feel his heart beating against her fingertips.

“Or maybe I’ll just finish the job my uncle started. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

His flaring nostrils was the only outer indicator of any turmoil. But his heart. Oh, she could feel it beat fast and hard. Was it fear? Or was it something else. She found whichever it was, it excited her. His heart against her hand, her own threatening to burst through her chest. It was intoxicating. She should feel shamed. Surely her old Septa would drag her outside by her ears and yell at her about the proper ways of acting like a Lady. But Septa Mordane wasn’t here was she? But she, pretty little Sansa Stark, the most proper and sweet of them all was was. She was here, she was alive, and she was sitting atop one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros. Him partly undressed with his life in her hands. He let her, she had no illusions otherwise, but the rush was still beyond anything she’d ever felt, and after Ramsey, something she had been sure she never would. She wanted more. Wanted him. Wanted his life to drain at her touch.

“Go ahead my love” he whispered “I’ve told you I will die at your wish. I meant it.” His words submissive. His demeanor not. The thumping against her hand, against the sharp point of the dagger got stronger. One push. Would it be enough? Could it pierce the skin, the bones to silence the beating heart once and for all? Silence his clever mouth, his piercing eyes. This dangerous powerful man that has brought so many to their knees. Gone because of her. One push.

“Tell me, will part of you will miss me?” His voice demonstrably cold, but she could tell there was something hidden beneath its affect. 

“Why miss a snake in the grass?”

“Because the grass is boring without it?”

She couldn’t help the chuckle escaping her lips, and noted a rare smile reach his eyes. It suited him.

“You promised her my head. For power”

She hadn’t really been shocked when she read the note. Scribbled in Cersei’s hand, she could almost smell the wine and hear her laugh emitting from the poison words. Words written to strike. And it worked. Whatever anger had dissipated since the battle returned full force. Anger at him, at herself. But now, seeing his smile, the one she thought he only showed her. The one that used to promise how he cared. It hurt. 

“I did”

Oh, he was way too nonchalant for someone inches from a pointy death. 

“But I must say, I’ve done as poor a job of bringing her your head as I did of bringing her your sister. As far as I can tell, your head is still firmly attached to that beautiful neck of yours.” As he talked, his right hand left the bed and gently started tracing her collarbone. She felt the goosebumps form in its wake, and knew she should push it away, but it was so long since she’d felt good. And that touch, simple as it was, sent a delicious tingling sensation all the way down to where her body met his thighs. His hand suddenly abandoned its gentle path, instead grabbing around her throat. She jumped at the movement, but felt no fear. His caress rough as he kept talking. “So tell me Sansa, have I simply grown sentimental, or am I waiting? Holding out for a perfect time where cutting off your head will somehow benefit me more?”

He could feel her blood pumping, she was sure. Feel her respond to his touch as much as his words. Still she forced her voice to calm, even as her lower body involuntarily pressed closer.

“Maybe you’re waiting for a better deal?” 

Something she couldn’t describe flashed across his eyes, before his hand in a swift motion lowered and pushed aside hers holding the dagger, freeing him to grab her hips with both hands and pull her flush against him.

“Tell me sweet wolf, what deal could you offer that would be worth it?” It was more growl than words, mouth hovering on hers. She’d be more mad at how easily he’d disarmed her, were it not for this new closeness that was far too distracting. Acutely aware of her dress, was it in the way or was it protecting her? No. She wanted to feel. Feel if he reacted like she did. Feel what she already knew. Knowing was no longer enough. 

“It’s my home, I don’t need to make a deal to keep my head” 

He smiled. Almost proudly.

“Good thing it's not a deal that I want then”

“Then what do you want?”

“I thought we already had this discussion. And what I want from you doesn’t include a simple deal.” 

She ignored his words. She couldn’t keep play these games with him. Mostly because she was losing the will to win. She had to return to why she was even here. 

“Why did you promise her my head”

The mood shifted, his response as close to a snarl as she'd ever heard from him.

“Don’t play this naïve little girl with me. I know you. Know your mind. You know why I promised her what I did. Or at least you should.”

She did. Of course she did. 

“Lies. Lies to worm into her trust. Lies to march on Winterfell without interference. Lies to play all sides to get exactly what you want.” She let her gaze travel over him, settling on his eyes as she considered her next words. “But enough truth to run back to her should you find it more advantageous.”

His on her tightened before one hand travelled up to gently cup her face.

“I’m not running.” 

Where his voice mere seconds ago was hard and demanding, now it was soft. Were he anyone else she would say it was loving. Filled with promise she longed to drink down. But she couldn’t afford to. Couldn’t afford to be his fool. Not again.

He pulled her even nearer, resting his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes. Meeting his was getting too hard, her defences crumbling. His heartbeat, his breath all that existed. And she waited. Waited for the kiss she was sure would come. The kiss she wouldn't reject. But it did't come. He was waiting too she realised. Waiting to see what she would do. 

“Then stay” The words left her mouth, and she felt the sudden need to get away. Get away before she closed the final distance herself, and then she’d truly be lost. She staggered to her feet and instantly felt his warmth leave her. He seemed surprised. Disappointed even. But made no move to stop her.

How her shaking legs carried her outside his room and down the hall she did not know. What she did know was that this, whatever it was, wasn’t over. Nor did she want it to be, no matter how it terrified her. But for now?

She ran.


	2. I See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I wasn't really done with this story after all (or perhaps it's Petyr and Sansa that weren't done). Should be one more chapter after this.

This late in the evening the musicians had moved on to songs even the rowdiest of guests could sing along to. And rowdy they were: There was dancing, or at least plenty of eager attempts. Laughter so loud it would echo through the walls for the long cold winter to come. Conversations at this point little more than incoherent drivel with the occasional shouts of “King of the north!”. As if there were any doubts for whom the feast was in honour of.

There was only one particular pair of guests that kept her attention though, eyeing them from across the great hall. Sure, the distance between them was proper enough. Yet, there was no mistaking the way the woman threw her head back in delight, nor the way her hand firmly held on to his arm, occasionally moving to playfully push at his chest. Not to mention the way she was biting her lip in what Sansa assumed was meant to be a very enticing manner, all the while gazing up at him through long dark lashes. Sansa scoffed. Shameless. Utterly, utterly shameless. Her intentions painfully obvious for any drunken idiot who glanced in their direction. And _he_ was no drunken idiot, though he played the part well. Too well. She probably thought she had him wrapped around her pretty little finger. As if the woman knew who she was dealing with. Who he was. What he was. No one in this room, maybe even in the whole north knew. No one knew him.

No one but her.

She wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on them. She noted several of the surrounding women shooting annoyed glances, while the men eyed the pair with interest. It was no wonder. New blood among northerners would always cause interest. And he caused more than most. Tales of his wealth and newly acquired lordship, not to mention his command of the Vale army, overshadowed the lowness of his birth. While not a young man, he was handsome. No fighter, but quick witted and charming. If anything, the northerners didn’t know quite what to make of him. He was a widower but married late in life. He had no children by marriage, and there were no rumours of any bastards running around. Perhaps he was a _gentleman’s man_ , some ventured, brows pointedly raised. Clearly, those people didn’t see the way he would occasionally look as Sansa. No, not look. He devoured her. Devoured her from across the room. Never for long, though time always seemed to still, before he would return his attentions to the woman beside him, leaving Sansa a breathless mess in his wake.

Why? There had be a reason for his actions. There always was with him. With Littlefinger. The attention and apparent adoration he showered that wretched woman with. He was hardly being subtle either. Just subtle enough so that no northern lord could accuse him of improper behaviour with the widow of one of their own. Only she could see the disdain hidden beneath his carefully crafted mask. Yes, he was performing quite well, and by the looks of it, he had her exactly where he wanted. Probably regaling her with stories. Oh, she could only imagine the raunchy tales he was telling, occasionally taking a large swig from the cup in his hand. For anyone watching he would appear as careless with his drink the rest of them. She wasn’t like everyone else though. She saw. She knew. He had barely touched the wine in his hand. The same could not be said of the object of his attentions, now stroking his arm and seemingly getting more and more affected by the minute, giggling while gradually closing the distance between them. Disgraceful, she noted with a sneer.

Pulled from her musings, she saw the young lord currently invading her space looking at her intently. She had no idea what he’d just said, but it was clear he was expecting an answer. She took a chance, nodded and giggled like a sweet little thing while pretending to take an exaggerated gulp from the goblet in her hand. He seemed pleased by her response and kept on talking.

Fool.

Once upon a time she would have easily fallen for someone like him. Young and handsome, sure to be brave on the battlefield. Now, she saw the empty shell hidden behind the veil of niceties. Now, he was just one of many hoping to win the favour of the king’s sister, the lady of Winterfell.

Fools, all of them.

She excused herself with a sweet smile, eyes firmly planted on her target. Surrounded by people, all eager to steal her away, she had to maneuver swiftly through the crowd. He noticed her long before she reached him. Hunger obvious in his stare. It used to bother her. Give her all kinds of conflicting emotions. But now, it filled her with glee. Glee and something else. Something she had no mind to dwell upon.

“Pardon the interruption” she exclaimed with an exaggerated smile directed at the woman by Petyr’s side. “Lord Baelish, I do believe you promised to finish telling me about the tourney of Harrenhall before the night was finished”

“As well I did” His eyes twinkled. If he was annoyed at her interruption, he hid it well.

_She_ however hid absolutely nothing, and it was hard to tell what was icier, her stare or her voice as she spoke:

“Lord Baelish happens to be in the middle of another story my Lady. I have no doubt you’ll have other opportunities. There seems to be plenty of young gentlemen to keep you company tonight.”

“Oh.” She looked down on the floor, appearing as bashful as a highborn lady would allow herself. “It’s just that I’ve barely gotten any opportunity to speak with Lord Baelish since we retook Winterfell. And none in the long months before. I’m sure you can allow a poor niece some much needed time with her dear sweet uncle.” She pouted and met cold hard ice with that of her own defiant stare. She saw from the corner of her eye Petyr bring his goblet to grinning lips. By the time he brought it down his face was perfectly neutral.

“Never let it be known that I’d neglect my precious niece. How my late sweet wife would certainly grieve were that the case.” He made an exaggerated display of kissing the back of the woman's hand. “It’s been a pleasure, my Lady.” A pleasant smile graced her pretty face, but Sansa could tell she was fuming. She couldn’t help but twist the knife a further, shooting the angry woman her most winning smile as she linked her arm with Petyr’s.

Walking along the edge of the crowd, Sansa was first to speak. “She’s pretty. Hair as golden as the queen’s. Though I must say, I thought you preferred red” Her attempt at playful sounded childish, even to her own ears.

“I _prefer_ beauty and wits, my Lady. Of which none compare to yours”

“Flattery, my Lord”

“Intending flattery doesn’t make it any less true.” A smile graced his features but he kept his stare directed ahead. “Now tell me, was the reason you wished to speak to inquire of my preferences?”

They paused along a wall, as private as they could hope for it in the given circumstances. She turned towards him.

“More to inquire of your intentions.”

“My intentions?”

“What schemes are you concocting lord Baelish?” She saw no reason to be anything but direct at this point.

“Can’t a man simply enjoy a feast? Enjoy wine and good company?”

“If you don’t want me to play a naïve little girl, then don’t treat me like one. Don’t you think I see what you’re doing? You’re no more drunk than I am, no matter what you will have others believe.” She looked for a reaction, but found none. None, bar the hunger return to his eyes. “So you observe and plot while others see no threat. Sow discord with no one suspecting. But how does your sweet companion for the evening fit into your plans? Do you intend to marry your way into the north like you did in the Vale? Should we be expecting the news of your joyous betrothal?“

He simply raised his brow, but made no move to talk. He seemed amused. Annoying her to no end, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words flowing from her mouth.

“That’s it, is it? Tell me, how many widows will leave you an unfortunate widower before even your cunning and luck runs out?”

“As you undoubtedly remember, it was neither luck or _my_ cunning that saved me the last time.” He paused as he leant closer, breath mingling with her own. “Not to mention, there’s only one widow that holds my affection, and no doubt she will outlive me by far.”

His gaze burned while his hand found a home on her arm . His want of a reaction obvious.

“Seems _she_ might be of another impression. I can only imagine the tales you told to enchant her so.”

“She has tales to tell herself. Very interesting tales.”

The laugh that escaped her lips was bitter, but she couldn’t help notice that _something_ dark in her chest lifted at his words.

“Are you telling me the brothel keep is whoring himself out for mere tales?”

His eyes lit up.

“Only for the best. I’ve always found it a weakness among men not to appreciate or acquire the tales of women. A lot of opportunities lost for deeming information not pertaining to the number of swords of little importance. Pity few see the value.”

“Only whoremongers and eunuchs do, it would seem.”

He didn’t answer beyond a small twitch at the side of his lips. His hand returning to his side, and the way his eyes looked right past her alerted her someone was approaching.

Jon and Ser Davos. Her brother, though never what you would call relaxed, had a genuine smile on his face. Even as he greeted Petyr who, he at best could be said to hold at respectful yet distrusting distance. Sansa would argue said distance should be greater.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourselves?”

Sansa plastered on her biggest smile to accompany her most scandalised tone. “Lord Baelish here is simply telling me the most horrible stories from King’s Landing.”

Petyr laughed louder than usual “I must apologise if your poor ears are burning my Lady. Though I must say, based on experience, I find the notion that women are born with more delicate ears than men one of the more unbelievable legends of Westeros”

“Guess it depends on the woman” she grinned.

“And the man” he countered.

“Indeed” Jon interjected, looking slightly lost at what transpired in front of him. His right hand man however seemed to be eyeing them with great interest. She knew from the first time she met him there was more to the Onion knight than he let on. And if she could tell, no doubt Petyr could too.

Pleasantries exchanged, Jon looked around the room uncomfortably. He had to move on, greet everyone, and it was obvious he was more comfortable in the battlefield than in the situation he found himself in right now. Thankfully, Ser Davos helped him by raising his goblet, announcing their need to move on.

“For the King”

“For the King” they echoed, Jon looking a combination of uneasy and proud. She downed the contents of her cup, noting that for once, Petyr seemed to do the same.

Once Jon and Ser Davos left, Sansa let her smile drop the same time Petyr did. He saw. Saw her. She couldn’t let him.

Trying but failing to continue their previous conversation, any words died on her tongue at the feel of his gaze. He was regarding her so intently she might as well be naked. He moved. Eyes locked on her.

Stalking his prey.

Ever close. The heat from his body radiating across her back as he paused behind her.

Too close.

She dared not move should she attract any attention to the two of them, but failed to suppress a whimper as his hand suddenly ran down the length of her spine. His breath warm on her neck, she didn’t miss the edge in his voice:

“Now, why I play their equal drunk, yet need to keep my wits in this northern company is obvious. But what of you, my lady? Sister of the king. A Stark in Winterfell. It’s your home, as you reminded me mere days ago. Yet your lips have met your cup repeatedly, but somehow it has never been refilled. So why the need for pretence, surrounded by nothing but friends and allies?”

She heard his smirk. That damned self-satisfied smirk that told her he saw right through her.

“Unless…”

He let it hang in the air between them. Again her own words betrayed her. Nothing. That damned man, she couldn’t let him have this. But before she could think of something, a cutting reply of some sort. Anything. He was gone.

But his touch, like flames on her skin, lingered.


	3. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than anticipated, but finally it's finished. Hope you like it!
> 
> Two little things:  
> I know book!Baelish has green/grey eyes, but this fic is purely based on the characters as portrayed in the show, and Aidan Gillen's are as blue as they come, hence the very non-canon description.  
> Second: I didn't realise how creepy I wrote Sansa in the beginning until I imagined the scene reversed. Which...yeah...some definite hints of non-con there.

It was late. Much later than she’d usually find herself awake, but the castle, while somewhat calmer than earlier, still pulsed with the sound of the most persistent guest. The walls themselves ebbing with life, making her attempts at sleep so far futile. Tossing and turning. Willing her brain to silence, to shut down. But it was of no use.

  
Restless.

  
Utterly, utterly restless. Something tingled and twisted inside her, protesting every time she closed her eyes.

  
It burned.

  
His touch still burned.

  
It had no right.

  
And his words. Damn his words, damn him. He saw too much, knew her too well. Knew just how to sting and soothe in the same breath. How to excite depths not even she knew till he reached them. And the joy she felt whenever she reached somewhere under the surface of his well crafted exterior was unparalleled.

  
She turned. Pressed her eyes closed. Calm. That’s what she had to be. He had no power over her.

  
Calm.

  
_Hands on her back, hands on her arms. Fingers cupping her face, bringing her closer. His lips. It seemed a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. She’d died. She’d survived hell. Because of him._

  
Flipping over once more, she tried to push every thought, every trace of him away. He didn’t deserve her thoughts.

 

_Him underneath her, warm, firm._

 

_No._

 

She should have had him killed. Should have killed him herself when she had the chance. Why were her thoughts so treacherous. Refused to let him go when she had been so determined not to let him in ever again. She was to use him for his army, that was it. But her body, as treacherous as her thoughts, seemed determined to keep humming in his presence. Tingling in his absence. Every touch and silken word etched across skin, marrow and bone.

 

Perhaps she was merely intrigued.

 

Perhaps.

  
Intrigued. Yes, that could be right.

  
He was after all a intriguing man. And she was a woman grown now. Even Margaery, pure and sweet Margaery, had told her it was natural to be curious. Curious about what happened between a man and a woman. And whether she liked it or not, he was truly her only experience it that particular area. She refused to count Joffrey’s juvenile slobbers. And certainly nothing by Ramsey’s hand.

  
But Petyr had soft lips. However confusing and wrong it had been. His grip strong and sure, yet never forceful. And he was a man, no doubt. Experienced. Confident. Handsome even.

  
So it was completely natural. She was curious, nothing more. The thought offering some brief comfort as she once more tried to relax. Tried to simply drift off into sweet nothing.

  
_His bare skin against her fingertips, his heartbeat strong. Pressed up against him, the temptation to move. Move her dress, move her hips just enough._

 

_No._

  
Bare feet hitting the floor, she winced at the sudden cold. She might have the warmest room in Winterfell, but the chill had definitely crept in. With no plan in mind, she grabbed a candle and walked to the hallway, shaking her head when the guard stationed outside her room made move to follow her. She felt his disapproving stare as she walked down the hall, as well as those of the other guards on her way, who made a poor showing of pretending to stare straight ahead.

  
No matter. They were mere guards. She was the lady of Winterfell. She could walk where she pleased.

  
She did not think when she reached his room, just ignored that particular guards raised brow as she opened the door and swiftly entered. She somehow doubted anyone but her would be permitted to do just that.

  
It was dark, the only source of light what emitted from the fire still burning. She could still discern shapes around the room, most prominently a figure on a large bed. A single figure. Alone. The relief hit her harder than she’d like to admit.

  
Soft breathing and the crackle of the fireplace the only sounds, all other noise from the castle seemed distant. She was alone here. Alone with him. Nothing else seemed real. No one else existed.

  
And now? She had no plan. No reason to be in here. Nothing but instinct had led her here, so she let instinct continue to lead the way. Slowly, she approached the sleeping figure.

  
He was on his back, buried deep under the furs. His by now southern, fussy skin probably not yet used to the cold. Stopping right next to the bed, she once more stood frozen, not sure of her next move.

  
Funny, she had never imagined him sleeping. It was so oddly ordinary, for such an extraordinary man. Setting the candle on the nightstand, she was free to lean closer to examine him. With his eyes, mind somewhere else, his face seemed relaxed in a way she’d never seen. Were she to guess, she’d say that no one’s ever seen. For once, no hint of calculation or sardonic smile graced his handsome features. He could almost pass as innocent.

  
Almost.

  
His hair mussed from sleep, a far cry from his normal rigid grooming. It looked so soft, she had to curb her impulse to run her fingers through it. To mess it up even more. See how out of control it could get. Her mind watchful of any hint of stirring, she let her eyes and fingers wander over him. An invisible path traced down his nose, over his cheekbones until she finally reached his lips. Slightly parted, she found her own mirrored his. They’d been so soft before. Soft and warm. Everything her life since had not been. Lowering herself over him, she let her own face hover above his, taking in every line, every slight change as he breathed in and out. Her lips so close, she gently let hers touch his, but dared not press down. Dared not feel his lips fully.

  
Inhaling the warm breath, imagining take the plunge and forget everything else.

  
Retracting, she let her gaze fall down along his body. His nightshirt open at the top, marred flesh still trailing to where she couldn’t see. Where she shouldn’t see. Where she definitely shouldn’t want to see.

  
But those treacherous thoughts.

  
From naval to collarbone she’d heard. Curiosity overtook her, hands moving down to push at the furs. Just a little further down.  
Fascinated, her eyes followed the retracting furs gradually exposing more of his body. Ears straining to hear any change in his breathing.

  
If she just tugged at his nightshirt.

 

Gently.

 

Just enough.

  
Everything was still. There had been no movement, but something in the air felt different. Something made her glance up from where her eyes had been glued. Glance up to where his eyes had been closed. Where they should still be closed. But now there was nothing but the brightest of blue looking right back. So vibrant, even in the darkness. Too alert for someone just awake. His mouth uncharacteristically still, he said nothing. Did nothing. How long had he known she was there? Known what she was doing? Blush spread, but so did a fluttering low in her belly. Everything frozen but the intensity of his gaze,  a boldness that would have scared her few months ago propelled her hand forward to touch his scar. Daring him to stop her.

 

When he didn’t, just kept his arms by his side and stare firmly planted on her face, she let her hand continue exploring.

  
Feeling.

  
He was so warm, and the floor and air surrounding her so cold. Maybe it was the search for further warmth, or perhaps to reclaim the power she felt for the briefest of moments a few nights ago. Perhaps it was that cursed tingling flaring up like never before. Whatever the reason, her eyes locked with his as she paused for only a moment. Her leg off the ground, crossing his body before she’d given it a second thought. Pulling herself up off the floor, she hovered above him, barely hesitating before sitting down across his body.  
This was wrong. So wrong. As was the look in his eyes. A look of pure sinful hunger roaming all over her, and she drank it down with great satisfaction. She tore her eyes away from his to follow her hand still perched on his chest. Still tracing that forbidden pathway.

  
Possessed. That’s what she was. Shaking but determined fingers pulling apart the laces of his shirt, revealing more and more of what lay underneath. Both hands now firmly planted on his chest, running through scattered hair on soft skin, only broken by the jagged line running down the middle. Tracing mindless patterns, she let her hands press down fully, filling her mind with nothing but the feel and look of her hands on his skin. The feel of him once more between her thighs, only this time there wasn’t nearly as much in terms of clothing separating them,

  
Through all her ministrations, he still made no move. Neither to stop or encourage her. He simply let her continue, all the while staring at her like a man dying of thirst would the ocean.

  
Patience apparently exhausted he sat up, but remained silent, as if by speaking he would shatter a sacred mirage and she would vanish. Gently taking one of her hands, he brought it to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrists. Breath caught in her throat. His eyes never leaving hers, his mouth continued its sinfully innocent dance.

  
Goosebumps appeared across her skin, despite the heat emitting from him warming even the coldest depths the sun hadn’t reached in years. She no longer knew what to do. She was no maiden anymore, but this was completely unknown territory. She wanted. Wanted to take. Wanted him to take. But how the thought frightened her. Why did she want this? This, that had brought nothing but pain and humiliation.

  
His mouth. She focused on his mouth. He’d kissed her before. So soft and gentle. The same way he now let that same mouth tease her fingers. Looking at her, he seemed to calculate his next move. Reaching, he cupped her face. Leaning up. She remained frozen.

  
His lips caught hers.

  
They were still so soft. So soft. There was no way not to melt into them. Into him.

 

He pulled away, just enough for him to look into her eyes. He looked so unsure. A small hitch evident in his breath. It was then she realised he was scared too. Scared he was moving too fast, that she didn’t really want this. That she would run like before. Run away from this.

 

From him.

  
She needed him to lead her, but it was clear he needed her to want him to. It emboldened her somehow, and with no hesitation she closed the distance between them herself. It was an imitation of the sweet kiss he’d given her, only slightly fumbling and unsure. Yet, when she pulled away to look at him, the message was clear.

  
His arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her against his chest as his lips found hers once more. Harsher this time. Her own arms wrapped around his neck as she responded to his kiss. Lips moving with his, and soon enough she felt his tongue. Flicking her lips, urging them open. He didn’t have to beg for long as she found herself eagerly trying to match the way his skilled tongue tangled with hers.

  
This was new. Every feeling, every jolt of pleasure brought on from his mouth, his soft hair grasped in her fingers, his body solid against hers. And she craved. She’d thought she’d craved before. Craved lemon cakes. Craved a prince to marry. What a fool she’d been. This was a hunger threatening to consume her. Devour her until there was nothing left. Until she would fall into darkness and never return.

  
And she would fall willingly.

  
His hands seemed everywhere at once, rubbing circles on her back, gripping her hips, moving down towards her thighs, then up brushing the sides of her breasts. Never fully committing. Testing the waters while his lips found her neck. She could do nothing but let her head fall back, encouraging his delicious ministrations. All lips and tongue and gentle nipping of teeth. Her sighs probably heard outside, but who cared. Who cared when his lips and hands was all over her body, turning her into a burning needy mess.

  
Bliss.

  
That’s what this was. Bliss and fear mixed into the most delicious of combinations.

  
His hands grew even more adventurous, one hiking up her nightgown to find her bare thigh, the other letting its thumb graze across the hardened peak of her breast. Intentions clear, he let his lips trail lower and lower, slow enough for her to stop him should she want to. Slow enough for her to squirm in anticipation. Waiting. Breath held, insides a flurry, until finally, the feel of his mouth where only harsh bites and grubby hands had been felt before. But this was nothing like that. No. His warm wet mouth, dampness on her skin, tongue flicking a hardened nipples through flimsy material. The scratching of his beard. This was pure sin. Pure sin and desire.

  
No. It hadn’t been like this. Never.

  
Thighs spread, she felt the ever increasing hardness beneath her. And how that should disgust and scare her. But she was safe in here with him, wasn’t she? Safe, lately the last word she’d use about him. But right here. Like this. Because she wanted to be here. His hardness evidence of her effect on him. Evidence that this man with the world in his grasp could be undone by her. At her will. Thrilling is what it was. And oh how it relieved the throbbing and aching that pulsed between her thighs. Rocking in his lap, her body knew what to do. Instinct guiding her along with his firm gripping of the flesh of her hips. The hard column hitting her in a way that made her moan and lurch forward. Sparks of something shot through her.

  
More. She needed more.

.  
And if it meant rocking in his lap like a harlot then so be it.

  
So when his hand found its way back to the hem of her nightgown, she gulped and nodded at the silent question posed in his eyes. His hand crept underneath, drawing lazy circles on her skin as it slowly trailed up her inner thigh. Time stilled. Too slow. Fire everywhere his fingers touched. Eyes never leaving hers. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart would surely burst out of her chest at any moment.

  
When he made contact the gasp from her lips seemed to be all the encouragement he needed to continue. Those same sparks as before returning with a heretofore unknown force. His assured movements causing a throbbing she never knew her body was capable of.The feeling so strong. The intimacy if it all so overpowering, she had to close her eyes. His fingers instantly withdrew, and she couldn’t contain a whimper in protest at the loss. His chuckle at her reaction both a beautiful melody and the most infuriating sound. She could just bite that smirk off his lips. Point taken she kept her eyes open. On him. And as she was rewarded with the sensation of his fingers where they made her sing, she only closed them briefly to kiss him harder than she’d ever had before.

  
Clinging to his neck, her hips moved by their own volition. She was chasing something, though she didn’t know what. She only knew she had to get there. Had to continue. Had to let him take her there.

  
Something snapped.

  
Something unlike anything she’d ever known washed over her, drawn out by those wicked fingers and the mere presence of him.

  
She couldn’t help her body collapse in his embrace, panting into his neck, his nightshirt balled up in her fists. Probably quite the sight. Something wet between her thighs, but she knew it had not come from him. Her forehead resting against his, as she tried to bring her breathing back to normal. Bring her senses back to normal. Whatever had happened, she didn’t know, but knew this, whatever it was, had to be what men were willing to risk both honour and coin for.

  
He smiled up at her as he tucked her hair behind her ear. Such a sweet caress after such a debauched act. The hand running up and down her thigh a reminder of what exactly had just occurred. She blushed as the realisation of where he’d touched her. How she must have looked. The sounds she’d made. She once again couldn’t meet his eyes. Not after that.

  
Looking down, she focused on his body. Nightshirt dishevelled and partly open, he was still too covered. She needed to see him. Feel him. His warm skin against her. Needed him as bare as she felt. Closer. His nightshirt in the way. She tugged at it, and he assisted her in its removal.

 

Finally. Naked, and all hers. She could feel every inch where she sat. He once again simply sat back and let her explore, but the obvious strain on his face showed how he was holding back.

  
Goosebumps trailed her fingertips. Small movements resonating through her. Naked skin, naked flesh underneath her. Warm and pulsing.

  
Oh.

  
Sure she’d felt it earlier. Felt it harden and grow. Strange. Forbidden. Wicked. Hers. But this was the first time she saw it. She’d seen one before of course. Up close. Too close. She’d had to do things. Touch it. Other things. But always refused to feel. She’d been anywhere else in those moments. Running around the fields of Winterfell, been under siege with Cersei under King’s Landing. Been a stupid, stupid girl. But never let herself be there. Now, she refused to shy away.

  
Tentatively she reached out. Her touch barely there at first. This time he was the one who appeared to hold his breath. Waiting. Her touch grew bolder. So silken, so hard. As contradictory as the man underneath her. He growled at the contact. Closed his eyes and threw his head back. Body arched, and, gods, how the sight affected her. How she longed to run her tongue along his body. Yet, she remembered. And now understood. As delicious a sight he might be like this, she wanted him to look at her. So she removed her hand, and met his frustrated look with a wolfish grin. He smiled then. As proud as any man could be.

  
Message clear, she resumed with reinvigorated effort, the pulsing hypnotic. And the sounds he made. Such primal sounds, and it awoke something equally primal in her. She wanted him to unravel. Wanted to shatter his controlled surface. Bring him to the brink and push him over, as he had her.

  
And then?

  
How it terrified her. Her body eager and recoiling all at once.

  
He must have sensed her fear, his hand gripping her own, stopping her ministrations. Panting, his eyes sought hers, the silent question obvious.

  
“It always hurt” The first words since she entered his room. She couldn’t look at him. His fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to face him. Tears threatened to sting.

  
“We don’t have to go any further.”

  
No. She didn’t want to stop. Just…

  
“Will it hurt?” Her voice small even to her own ears.

  
A struggle seemed to go on inside him before he responded. “I don’t know”. Looking defeated, he still held her gaze as he continued. “It shouldn’t. It’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to feel wonderful. But I can’t promise…”

  
He let it hang between them. What was done to her. What he’d sent her to, however unknowing. If she’d still feel the ramifications of his actions. This time it was he who could not meet her gaze.

  
Having him like this. So close. So unsure. For once refusing to lie to her. It made it easier. She reached for him again. Touched him. Watched him twitch and grow in her hand.

  
“But it’s supposed to feel good?”

  
“Yeah” he hissed as her hand kept stroking.

  
“Gods Sansa”

  
His concern seemingly losing the battle inside him, he still gave her one more way out, however pained his words sounded.

  
“Sansa, there are many ways for me to please you. You don’t have to do this.”

 

No, she didn’t. But she wanted to. And she was so tired of being scared.

  
Surprised by her own conviction, she let her mouth crash into his. Hard and demanding. Daring him to respond in kind. Teeth nibbling lips, she greedily accepted his tongue. He grabbed her by the hips and pulled her closer. Her fear slowly fading. It felt so good. Her hips undulating, grinding down on his hard member. The material of her nightgown so thin she could almost feel all of him. Just almost. His groaning in her ear made her long to take him in. Long for him to fill her, though how that could happen without pain she still couldn’t understand. They broke apart panting. He squeezed her hips, but did nothing to move it along. He was giving her the control she realised. But what to do?  
Ramsey had always just taken.

  
No.

  
She refused to think of him. Not now. Not with Petyr between her legs. Waiting. Slowly stroking her thighs, casually bringing her nightgown along as he went.

  
She let her own hands fall on top of his. Pulled them further along, tried to guide him to what she wanted. He understood, his hands no longer stopping at her hips. Slowly he gathered her gown and pulled it over her head.

  
No more barriers.

  
Completely bare before him as he was before her. The warmth of his naked skin on hers, the feel of his beating heart against her chest. Nothing shielding her from the full sensation of her core against his hardness. Whatever hesitation remained vanished at his look of worship as his eyes hungrily travelled over every inch of her body. She was so vulnerable with nothing to cover her, but under his gaze, she was powerful.

  
“Show me” she whispered, lips once more finding his, as he nudged her to lift her hips. She complied, and felt her heart beat faster at the sight of him grabbing himself.

  
“Sure?” his voice husky and filled with all the need present in her own body.

  
By way of answering, she further positioned herself over him, but couldn’t help but tense at the memories of what had been.

  
“Relax Sansa” he murmured against her neck. The sweet kisses he placed there, warm breath and timber of his voice doing more to soothe her than the words themselves.

  
It stretched. Stretched a lot as she slid down and let him in. She still couldn’t quite believe it would fit. The pressure scared her at first, but at his hushed encouragement and comforting hands rubbing her back, it faded to just a hint of a sweet, sweet pain. Positively sinful. More than that, it felt good. Fully seated on him, she let out the air trapped in her chest and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her eyes welled up. She had him deep inside, and it was nothing like she feared. The fullness was good. Even the slight pain, now dissipating as her muscles relaxed, had felt good.

  
He let her sit there for a few heartbeats, lifting her face, worry etched across his face. He must have felt her tears, taken them for hurt. She couldn’t find the voice to tell him what they meant, so she kissed him in assurance, not able to keep the grin off her face. She felt the gentle pressure from his hands on her hips, and knew she should move. She knew the pure mechanics after all, if not the dance itself. So she experimentally lifted herself, then closed the gap once more. The hiss escaping his mouth proved she was doing something right. She wanted more of that. More sounds. Her name from his lips. Shivering under her touch like she did under his. Not to mention, more of what was burning inside her.

  
His grip moved to her bottom, as he started guiding her movement. Up and down, grinding into him. It was slow, the intimacy only on the verge of too much. They built a rhythm, and soon he started meeting her thrusts with those of his own. The sensation building. Her mind a haze, senses nothing but him and her own heartbeat loud in her ears. His breath and small chants of 'Sansa' a prayer only she could draw from his lips.

  
Breath shaking, she couldn’t control the whimpers and moans that started escaping. As she grew more secure in her movements, he embraced her tightly around her lower back, pulling her so close they might as well be one. She grasped his shoulders, equally desperate.

  
Her pleadings became that of more.

  
Pleasure spread, her entire body on fire. And once again she was chasing. But it was no longer a mystery what. She burned. Yearned to be consumed.

  
Without breaking rhythm he turned them over. Her body arching and clinging to him as it hit the bed.

  
To watch the expression on his face as he unravelled. The wonder and intensity no longer hidden in those blues. The warm breath as he buried his head in her neck.

 

Meeting his movements as best she could, her body coiling. Everything was him as the intensity inside her built and built until she was positive her body could no longer contain itself. If the world were to collapse around them she was sure not to notice, let alone care. Nothing mattered but the chase. His body moulded to hers, moving as one.

  
That same wave that before, now crashing into her with such intensity she saw nothing but white light. Her entire body arching, pulsing with energy.

Alive.

Senses consumed, she could feel Petyr's movements turn more frantic. His chanting more incoherent, until her name on his lips was a nothing more than a hiss and his entire body tensed.

  
Both panting, his body finally relaxed on top of her.

  
Messy. It was so very messy. As if discovering it for the first time. Yet she didn’t mind. Not at all.

  
His kiss wet and sloppy, she responded in kind. Pressed him closer, wrapped herself around him with any limb available. Not a sliver of air between them as they rocked back and forth, the aftershocks of what had just occurred pulsing through her.

  
He tried to shift his weight off her, but she made sounds of protest and tightened her grip. She wanted to feel his full weight against her. Be crushed.

  
And how she could stay like this. Run her hands up and down his bare back, feel the ridges of his spine pressing against her fingertips, his muscles flexing under her touch. She could hold him close and simply stay.

  
Warm.

  
Safe.

  
All the things she hadn’t felt in years. To simply stay like this. With him. With Petyr.

  
Oh, but her nagging brain would never let her believe it could be that easy.

  
The day would soon wake. And with the day, so would the games. Betrayal. Yes, the day would be bringing with it danger more real than any found in the night. Nothing more than the man currently resting atop of her.

  
Would Littlefinger emerge more confident in his game than ever? Could the two ever be separated, Petyr and Littlefinger? Was it just some fantasy,one of many, that she’d concocted to justify her closeness with the man.

  
No.

  
She had no fantasies anymore. She knew who was in her arms.

  
Was he scheming even now?

  
He kissed her again. Let his eyes fill her line of vision.

  
Probably. How could he not.

  
But his eyes were for once filled with emotion. Something she never saw him show anyone. Rarely even herself.

  
Yes, the day would be upon them soon. For now she’d let him be Petyr.

 

He propped himself up, and she let him this time, need for air finally winning.

  
“You should stay.”  There was a softness to his voice, usually laced with sarcasm and ambition.

 

It would be unwise of her, and she voiced as much.

  
“What did I tell you about risking everything?” The look in his eyes as indecent as ever before.

  
“You’ll risk your head”

  
He laughed, smile reaching his eyes.

  
“Oh, that giant of yours will strike me down at first chance no doubt. Let me worry about my head my love. If nothing else, it will bring your Lady Brienne much joy.”

  
His lips found hers once more

  
“Stay”

 

That damned man too persuasive for his own good.

  
“Stay”

  
Those sinful lips on her neck as he spoke. His hand stroking her sides. Moving down down down.

  
Oh, daylight would come too soon.

  
But not yet.

 

*****************************************************************************************************************************

Eyes heavy, body sated, she forced herself to stay awake. Just a little while longer. Morning would come any minute. The sun threatening to break through the windows any moment. This was her chance to study the man currently sleeping beside her. Her companion. Her lover. A surprising comfort and warmth in the cold. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised it had come to this. Maybe this, whatever this was, would bring joy. Whatever joy was left in this world anyway. But she knew it couldn’t last. Not with him, and yet it could only be him. This man, so innocent in his sleep, though his dreams would probably beg to differ. This man with a thousand lies on his lips.

  
Unless he changed everything he was, which honestly, would break her. Unless he changed everything she was, which she would never let him.

  
One day. Just as inevitable as her laying blissfully entangled with him in this very moment.

  
One day, she would have to break him. Break him before he breaks her. Her family. Her home.

  
No. He wouldn’t change. Not enough anyway.

  
But maybe he’d helped change her just enough. Just enough for her to be able to do what she needed when the time came.

  
She gave his lips a soft kiss. For now, she could let herself have this. She could feel good.

  
The world wasn’t good. He wasn’t good. She was no longer sure of what she was. A survivor probably. Like him. And if he betrayed her. No, when he betrayed her, she would do what was necessary. And she would weep as his blood covered her hands, filled her line of vision with nothing but warm crimson. His heartbeat, once so strong, fading under her touch. It would have to be her.

  
His heart, his life. For how could anyone else take what was hers?

  
She curled up against him. Let him pull her in. Let herself sink into blissful darkness, his rhythmic breath the most soothing of lullabies.  
Maybe she would look back at this very moment, filled with regret. Maybe they both would.

  
She probably should leave.

  
Heartbreak was sure to follow.

  
But for now?

  
She would stay.


End file.
